


What To Do If Youre Bored On A Friday Night

by kcannibalp



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cowboys, Gen, Late 1800’s, OC alt universe, Other, Religious Imagery, Texas, based off of If Youre Bored On A Friday Night by Kelsey Rose, based off of MWDF by MindfulWrath, cryptic, god fearing americans, oc au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-21 06:34:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30017604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kcannibalp/pseuds/kcannibalp
Summary: 1. Find something alive and set it on fire. Because the only thing better than a burning body is a burning body that moves. And the only thing better than a burning body is a burning body that knows it’s burning.2. Take the body and bury it. Forget. Remember. bury it deeper. Remember.3. Get on your knees for an almost-stranger in a graveyard. If you feel the eyes of your mother’s God on you, smile with all of your teeth.
Relationships: Original Character(s)/Original Character(s)





	What To Do If Youre Bored On A Friday Night

The Texas sun is nothing if not cruel, unaccompanied by a breeze of any kind to divert the path of the beads of sweat under your collar. No cooling wind to whip across your face, instead you get dust. Blood runs thick and high in your cheeks, and you wear a red face even though you rode your horse the whole way over. 

She chitters and whinnies as you make haste of tying the leash around the iron fence of the cemetery’s stone walls. The soft warmth of the old stones under the sun doesn’t calm you, as they are older and more respected than you’ve ever been.

Graves don’t scare you, and neither does God — it’s who He’s currently watching that puts the lump in your belly; you aren’t excited to step onto His hollow ground but rather feel responsibility choking you every moment your eyes aren’t stalking the devil. You were taught young never to take your eyes off of a viper. 

Crushing gravel pathing under your boots is still loud under the shrill sound of the desert, the heat and animals, what lies under unturned stones. Still, actions have always spoken louder than words, but the backhanded prayers he speaks under his breath surpasses them. A southern drawl so thick it rolls back into his throat like the curl of a fishing hook. 

His head is bowed and gloved hands clasped together in what he thinks is respect, being on his knees infront of a grave that shares his surname means nothing to him and you both know it. Had you not been given his testimony on what he’d done to his parents you might’ve believed he was hunting for redemption; he is hunting, but for redemption? No. There are bigger fish to catch. 

As you get closer, you hear him clearer. The hiss of his ‘S’s and bite on his ‘T’s confirm to you he is praying; you recall him saying under the moons oath that he’d never been that much of a religious man. Being a gentleman to all and afraid of some, you pull back and wait for him under a tree a few metres back. 

He presses two hands to the pale soil of the grave dirt and sighs once, before standing and patting himself free of the debris. When he turns to you, he looks as fresh as saplings in March - no coating of sweat or hair out of place, no redness of face from the heat or the holy. 

He comes and sits next to you, and you’re almost through peeling an orange. He takes the scraps and throws them thick-armed in the direction of your horse. 

“What are you playing here, Miguel?” 

You ask, and he rips a handful of thinning grass from the space in between you. 

“Nothing wrong with paying y’er respects, Clyde.”

“This ain’t the one  you pay respects to, is it.”

You tear off an orange slice and hold it to him. He takes it but does not eat it, and peels away the thin membrane. When a drop of juice runs down his thumb, he doesn’t react. 

“Now, isn’t it only natural to be a Hell-fearing ‘merican under th’ eyes of your mothers God?”

You bite into a slice of fruit and try not to sit on what he’s just spoken to you, but it’s difficult to dodge. 

“It’s natural for quite l’terally anybody else in this town t’ be Hell-fearing. _You_ are the last motherfucker I woulda snagged as fearing Hell.”

“What do I say, I got’s travel anxiety.”

“Now don’t say that.. I know it’s true but it stings.”

Miguel crushes the orange slice between two fingers. You think of how the inside of his gloves must be sticky, and wipe your mouth before getting up. 

You feel caught on something as you’re walking back to your horse, but he makes himself known soon enough. 

“Are y’ leaving?”

“Nobody else’s gonna archive all that paperwork. Some’ve us don’t have time t’ make a scene of catholic-guilt at one in the afternoon.”

“You’re th’ only person here..?”

You ‘tsk’ loud enough for him to know your intention and bore into him. 

“Don’t I know that,” Sarcasm dripping from you. 

Something catches in his eye and he looks away, his smile deepening to something more personal that you will never understand. 

“Please don’t leave me.”

“How’dya get over here w’out a horse in the first place?”

He smiles at you with all his teeth, then turns to face the sun-bleached sky. It is cloudless and blisteringly bright. 

“Good question.”

Sitting under the tree like he is, he almost looks normal. An average guy, well worn chaps from the thickets and a loved whittling knife on his hip. 

Sometimes you find yourself wishing you could go back, to long before you met him; but you can’t decide whether you’d try things differently or walk away from him altogether. 

“I’m not dealing with yer cryptic bullshit on the ride back.”

He laughs heartily and slaps his knees, pushing himself away from the tree. 

“Yessir.”

**Author's Note:**

> based off of the poem by Kelsey Rose, ‘what to do if you’re bored on a friday night,’ and the retired fic ‘murder with the devil and friends,’ by MindfulWrath.
> 
> both characters belong to me.


End file.
